Alight

by Scott Sigler

  Now it is so obvious—he wants me to go alone because he wants me to die. The Springers can eliminate his main rival for leadership, and he doesn’t have to lift a finger.

  Still, I don’t have a choice. If there is any chance I can pull this off and save my people, I have to take it.

  Aramovsky tilts his head toward the shuttle door. “Gods be with you. Go now.”

  I am dismissed.

  People step aside, opening a path to the shuttle door.

  I step out onto the deck. The night is black, overcast, starless. A stiff breeze brings that smell of mint. Before I can walk down the ramp, Bishop rushes out to join me.

  “Take a flashlight,” he says, handing me his from a pocket in his coveralls. “And a med-kit.” From another pocket, he hands me one of the white plastic cases.

  He grabs me, pulls me in close for a hug.

  “Stop halfway to the gate,” he whispers. “I’ll send help.”

  He turns and walks back into the shuttle.

  There is nothing left but to face the path I have made for myself.

  I walk down the ramp, across the landing pad, and head for the city gate.

  It is dark and drizzling. Blackness drapes the city in a shroud of hidden threats. I don’t want to use the flashlight, because it will let anyone following know exactly where I am.

  Just like Bishop told me to do, I stopped halfway to the gate. How long should I wait? I need to get out of the city, find Barkah’s church. I still have no idea how to locate the Springers—my best chance is for Barkah to find me there.

  The breeze makes leaves rustle, makes me see and hear things that I know aren’t there. I feel so exposed. Maybe Aramovsky won’t wait for the Springers to finish me off—what if he sends Bawden, or Farrar? Now that Aramovsky is the leader, would either of them obey his orders to kill me? Maybe, maybe not, but one of the little circle-stars certainly would.

  My coveralls can’t keep out all the weather. I’m wet. I’m cold. I’m hungry. I’m afraid.

  I’m alone.

  There is only one person you can always count on—yourself.

  My father’s voice. A new memory. Sitting on his knee, my head against his chest. I’m crying. I was six years old…maybe seven. Something bad had just happened. Something that hurt me, terrified me. I’m looking at my father’s face. A mustache, black. Kind eyes. Heavy, black hair, like mine. His forehead…

  My father didn’t have a symbol.

  And…neither did I. At least not then.

  He’s crying, too. He’s holding it back but I can see it, I can hear it in his voice even though he’s trying to hide it.

  Matilda, I have to send you away. I know you can’t understand right now, but you will. The only way I can keep you safe is to hide you. There may come a time when the tooth-girls tell you to do something dangerous, or the double-rings try to hurt you because they know no one will punish them. If that happens, remember—do whatever it takes to survive.

  I can smell soap on his skin. I can hear his rough hands petting my hair. This isn’t a Matilda memory—it’s not secondhand, as if I’m seeing and feeling what someone else experienced. It’s like I was there, that my father spoke to me.

  My father. His name was…

  …his name was David.

  He sent me away because of something my grandfather did. He sent me away to become one of the…the Cherished. That word has power. When I was at school, I did what my father told me—I did whatever it took to survive.

  There is only one person you can count on…

  I realize I’m standing in the middle of the street like a fool. What would my father think if he knew I was waiting for someone else to take care of me?

  I watched Visca. I watched Bishop. I saw how the circle-stars blend in. I know how they track, I know how they move.

  Maybe I’m not a circle-star, or a gear or a half—but I’m not an empty, either.

  Not anymore.

  I am the wind…I am death.

  —

  Someone is coming.

  My back is pressed against a ziggurat’s base layer. I’m wedged in behind the thick vines that cover the cold, wet stone. The breeze drives the drizzle sideways, makes the leaves surrounding me quiver.

  Damn this overcast sky. I wish there was some moonlight, anything that would let me see who is out there.

  I hold a jagged piece of masonry. In a city that is steadily deteriorating, this is one weapon that’s not hard to find.

  Who is coming? I hope it’s Bishop. But if it isn’t? If it’s someone sent to kill me? Then I will kill them first.

  A hissed whisper cuts through the darkness.

  “Em?”

  Is that Bishop? I can’t tell. It’s a boy, but the stiff breeze and rattling leaves make the voice impossible to recognize.

  The clouds must break for a moment, allow a thin bit of moonlight to shine down. A boy, a tall boy, draped in shadow. Holding…is that a shovel?

  Farrar. Did Bishop send him, or did Aramovsky?

  The moonlight vanishes. The night is pitch-black.

  I hear footsteps coming closer.

  My fingers tighten on the rock. The rock is hard and jagged and final. It’s not as elegant as my spear, but it will take life just the same.

  He’s coming my way. Not directly, he’s searching, like he knows I should be in his area but doesn’t know exactly where.

  Closer. A few more steps, and I will crush his skull.

  My hand shakes. My arm trembles. The wind and the leaves keep me hidden and silent.

  Two steps away. Slowly, so slowly, I raise the rock.

  “Em, are you there?”

  This close, I instantly recognize the voice.

  “O’Malley?”

  He jumps away, surprised. His feet catch and he falls face-first.

  I step out from the vines. O’Malley rolls to his butt, sees me, starts scrambling backward.

  “No! Don’t kill me!”

  I stop, confused. He doesn’t recognize me? No—of course he doesn’t.

  “It’s me,” I say. “It’s Em.”

  His scrambling stops.

  He slowly gets to his feet. He shakes his head, smiles in proud astonishment.

  “You scared me,” he says. “You certainly look different.”

  I do. Vines tied around my chest and waist and legs break up my outline. The skin of my face and hands is covered in plant juice and dirt. Twigs and leaves are woven into my hair.

  “I saw Bishop talking to you when you left,” he says. “I knew he was planning a way to get you help.”

  Of course O’Malley saw it—the master of whispers wouldn’t miss such a thing.

  “Why didn’t Bishop come himself?”

  “He couldn’t. Aramovsky was watching him closely, rushing him out to the spider nest. I waited until Aramovsky wasn’t looking, asked Bishop what I could do. He told me to get you any weapon I could find.”

  O’Malley picks up the shovel, offers it to me. I drop the rock and take it. The shovel is heavy and unbalanced.

  “Be careful with it,” he says. “Gaston helped me. He used a machine in the shuttle to sharpen it.”

  I drag my thumb across the edge, the way Coyotl showed me. It’s very sharp. Probably sharper than the knife O’Malley wears on his belt, the one I used to kill Yong.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Won’t Aramovsky notice his right-hand man is gone? That’s what you do, isn’t it? You help the leader?”

  “He’ll notice eventually, but not right now. Opkick is his advisor—seems I’m not needed anymore.”

  Oddly, I feel bad for O’Malley. If Aramovsky had picked him, would he have still come after me? I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter: I needed help, and O’Malley came.

  He steps closer. He reaches out, slowly. His fingertips trace my hairline, as if he needs to touch me but doesn’t want to mess up my camouflage. The drizzle wets his face, makes his cheeks gleam slightly from what little light penetrates
the clouds.

  “I didn’t come just because Bishop couldn’t,” he says. “I came because…because I love you.”

  He has no idea that I almost killed him just now.

  I’ve got one boy who won’t tell me how he feels, and another who won’t stop telling me how he feels.

  “You should head back to the shuttle,” I say.

  He leans away, almost like I slapped him.

  “But…but I’m going with you.”

  This wasn’t just a delivery run. He’s ready to head into the jungle with me. He knows how dangerous this will be. But he has no experience fighting, no survival training as far as I know. He’s a politician—away from the safety of the group, he’s useless.

  Still, O’Malley is smart. He’s strong. And just because he doesn’t know how to fight doesn’t mean he will back down from one. If I don’t find the Springers, it’s war; I’ll take what help I can get.

  “Keep up with me,” I say. “And be quiet.”

  —

  The jungle is alive with noise. Low hoots, squawks, yelps, growls and an occasional dying squeal. The stiff wind has carried away some of the cloud cover, giving us enough moonlight to walk by. I’m grateful for that, because the flashlight would make us easy targets for a musket shot. Barkah and Lahfah aren’t the only Springers out here.

  Our best chance is to find the church. Hopefully, Barkah is there, and—hopefully—he’ll talk to me. If he’s not there, then it will be time to use the flashlight and wander the jungle. If O’Malley and I are lucky, the first Springers we meet will want to talk, not shoot.

  I found that first fire pit. I’m surprised I can follow the trail easily, even at night. I like to think that Visca would have been proud of me.

  O’Malley is noisier than I would like, but I admit I’m impressed. He’s quieter than Coyotl was, and way quieter than Borjigin. If we make it through the night alive, he might learn to be as silent as I am.

  And when he talks, he whispers—for that part of creeping through the jungle, at least, he’s a natural.

  “You did a brave thing, coming out here,” he says.

  “You’re out here, too.”

  He’s behind me, so I can’t see him, but I’m sure he’s nodding. I hear a sharp slap as he smacks a bug that landed somewhere on his face or neck.

  “It’s been at least an hour,” he says. “How much farther to this church?”

  “You mean, if we don’t get killed by a snake-wolf? Or shot by Springers? Or attacked by one of the other animals we hear?”

  A pause.

  “Yeah. If none of those things happen.”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there. More walking, less talking.”

  It’s almost funny to think about how confident he was back in the pilothouse, when he kissed me. In the safety of the shuttle, he swaggers. Out here, he’s scared. I shouldn’t tease him about that, though—I’m scared, too.

  The animal noises fade, then go silent.

  “What’s happening?” O’Malley asks.

  “Predator. Come on.”

  I lead him to the same kind of wide-leafed plant Borjigin hid beneath. We tuck under the leaves and wait.

  Beneath my feet, a small tremble. A regular tremble, not the mad stampede of animals. O’Malley feels it, too—he looks at the ground quizzically.

  “Uh, Em…just how big is this predator?”

  Something’s wrong. When the snake-wolf came, I didn’t feel anything like this. The vibrations grow stronger, thump-thump-thump-thump.

  Memories of our time on the Xolotl come rushing back. A rhythmic pounding, an organized stomping. Getting louder and louder. Shaking the ground.

  O’Malley figures it out a split second before I do.

  “Marching,” he says. “But it would have to be so many. Thousands.”

  He looks at me, half in fear, half in disbelief.

  “Springers,” I say, and ice creeps across my heart.

  I stand, scan the jungle. I need to get higher and see what’s going on. There, a big tree, the trunk massive and gnarled, wider than most. If it’s wider, maybe it’s also taller.

  I hand O’Malley the shovel.

  “Stay here,” I say.

  Thick vines run up the big trunk, creepers that root in the ground and cling to the bark with hundreds of thin white tendrils. The vines—still wet from the drizzle—hold my weight, let me climb high enough to grasp a branch. I move quickly but carefully, mindful that everything I touch and step on is damp and slick.

  Higher.

  I draw even with the canopy, see the tops of trees all around me. I was right: this tree is taller than most.

  Higher still.

  The leaves rattle harshly just above my head—something yellow and small leaps from the tree. Arms spread, skin flaps catch air, and the animal is gone in an instant, banking to slide through vines and out of sight.

  My heart hammers. That thing startled me…maybe I startled it. It was the same kind of animal I saw when Spingate and I were walking through the jungle. This close, though, I saw more of it. Seemed like it was holding something…maybe a stick?

  I climb higher.

  The trunk narrows, the branches thin. I reach the top—here the trunk is so slim the tree wobbles from my weight.

  As if the gods are real and want to help me, the wind drops off and the last of the drizzle stops. One of the two moons escapes the clouds and turns the jungle into a maroon landscape.

  I look out across the trees.

  “Oh…oh no.”

  The canopy blocks most of my view, but through it I see so many Springers it looks like the entire jungle floor is moving.

  A line of them march shoulder to shoulder, hopping in unison. The line stretches off into the distance. I can’t even see where it ends.

  Some carry muskets. Most carry other weapons: axes, knives, swords and spears.

  Behind the first line, a second.

  And a third.

  Thousands of them. My people are hopelessly outnumbered. The war machines will be our only hope of survival.

  Closer the marchers come. I have to move soon or I won’t be able to get down without being seen.

  Wait…in the middle, straight out from me, behind the second line. Springers hacking at trees and vines, cutting away underbrush. Stretching out behind them, a maroon streak through the jungle—they are clearing an old road.

  Something on that road. I squint, lean forward, as if those extra few inches can make a difference. I recognize the design. The toys Barkah showed me, the ones with the long, straight wooden tails, the carts that smashed spiders…they weren’t toys at all. They were models of something real.

  These are too big to call carts—I think wagons is a better word for them. The tent-poles-without-a-tent frameworks brush against overhanging branches. The thin, straight tails stretch out twice the length of the wagons themselves.

  The wagons are big enough for several Springers to ride on top, although no one is riding. Instead, there are five Springers on each side, pushing the wagons over the broken, bumpy, just-cleared road.

  Springers are marching on our city. They are prepared to take on the spiders and win.

  My people will be slaughtered—I have to go back, I have to warn everyone.

  The way the Springer lines angle away…

  I turn and look back, see the city of Uchmal rising out of the jungle. Oh no…there is no way O’Malley and I could make it to the gates without the Springers seeing us. The only hope of escape we have is to continue along the trail as fast as we can go.

  The Springer church…the cellar where Barkah hid Spingate and me…

  Omeyocan’s second moon slips from behind the clouds, adding pale blue light to the jungle. It’s too bright—if even one of those thousands look up here, they’ll see me.

  I start down, dropping fast. My hands and feet slip on wet bark. I smash my knee, then my shin, but the pain doesn’t slow me. I lose my footing a third time, fall into a branch
that hammers my ribs. Can’t stop—if I stop now we’re dead.

  Branches, vines, feet, hands…faster and faster.

  When I reach the last branch, O’Malley is kneeling, half-hidden behind the wide trunk. I drop to the ground next to him, feel the rhythmic stomp-stomp-stomp of the marching army.

  “Em, we have to get out of here!”

  For once, I don’t mind his whispers.

  I peek around the trunk. Through the dense underbrush, I can see them coming—a line of alien soldiers hopping straight for us, weaving around trees, dipping down the far side of jungle-choked craters only to hop out the near side.

  When I turn and run, O’Malley is right behind me. We stay low and sprint down the trail. Our booted feet eat up the distance, enough that I start to think we got away clean.

  And then I hear the long, droning note of a horn.

  They’ve spotted us.

  We sprint through endless jungle ruins, doing our best to keep to the trail. Overhanging vines and encroaching leaves slap at us, splashing us with beaded drizzle that soaks our hair and runs down our faces into our coveralls.

  A flash of lightning. Thunder follows two seconds later. As if the deafening noise ripped the bottom from the clouds themselves, the rain pours down again.

  The horn echoes through the trees.

  They are chasing us.

  I think we’re a little bit faster than the Springers, but hopping and landing on both feet makes them more stable on this rough, wet ground. I’ve fallen once, banged my chin on a tree root. O’Malley has fallen twice. He’s bleeding from a cut on his temple. Each time we hit the ground, we’re up before our momentum slows. We are wet and muddy and running for our lives.

  I try to see where we are, but all the jungle looks the same. Are we near the church? Have we already passed it?

  A double burst of lightning pulses across the night sky, and in that split-second glare I see it: the steeple, the rings with the six dots.

  I turn off the trail, sprint headlong into the underbrush. I hear O’Malley crashing in behind me.

  We enter the dark steeple. It’s empty. O’Malley quietly shuts the double doors while I stumble to the wall, around the statues, until I find the trapdoor. I open it and urge O’Malley in.